Chapter Thirty One.
The Clouds Dispelled.
Neil Elthorne was more himself as a cab set him down at Sir Denton Hayle’s that evening, where the quiet, old-fashioned butler received him in a solemn, old-fashioned way, and ushered him at once into his master’s study, for, though there was a fire and lights in the great first-floor drawing room, they were only for form’s sake, when the old surgeon had company; and upon occasions like the present it was almost certain not to be used.
Sir Denton received his pupil as warmly as if he had been his son, and they were soon after seated face to face in the gloomy dining room, where the table was reduced to the smallest proportions to which it could be screwed.
It was a thoroughly good, old-fashioned dinner, at which the butler handed very old East India sherry, which was hardly touched; and, after clearing the cloth, left on the nearly black, highly polished table, three massive silver decanter stands, in which glowed, like liquid gems, port, claret, and burgundy.
These shared the fate of the sherry, and stood untouched, while, now that they were alone, the important subject of the appointment was discussed, and Sir Denton gave his views concerning the mission.
“Yes; it makes me wish I were thirty years younger, Neil,” said the old surgeon. “People talk about it as a forlorn hope, but I maintain that there is victory to be won, and I am sure that you will win it. People are dying off as we read of their dropping away during the plague. There must be a reason for this, and you are going to discover it, and put a stop to this terrible bill of mortality. Ah, I wish I were going with you to work hand in hand, advising and asking advice.”
“I wish you were going, sir,” said Neil quietly. “Too old—too old, my dear boy—much too old. Now tell me, where shall you attack the demon first?”
“Clean out his den,” said Neil, smiling.
“Good; of course. Sanitation. An Augean task, my young Hercules, but that is it. People will not believe it, but dirt is the nursery bed for most of the germs of disease; and the wonder to me is, not that so many people in our more crowded parts are smitten down, but how they manage to live. Now where you are going, that deadly fever runs riot. I do not believe it could ever exist if everything possible were done to cleanse the place.”
“I suppose not,” said Neil thoughtfully.
“It could not. I’ve been thinking it all over, my dear boy, and I have no fear whatever for you. Work will keep you healthy; and now I suppose you would like me to give you a couple of valuable recipes in which I have enormous faith.”
“By all means,” said Neil eagerly. “Will you write them down?”
“No: you can remember them. As to quantities, give them à discretion—extravagantly. Here they are: pure water and whitewash. They are death destroyers, my dear boy, and—bless me, I did not want to be disturbed this evening.”
The butler entered the room and went up behind his master’s chair.
“I am too much engaged to see anyone,” said the old man testily.
The butler said a few words in a low tone.
“Bless me! Oh, yes; of course. I’ll come directly. Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Elthorne? Pray help yourself to wine.”
“Certainly,” replied Neil, and the old man went hurriedly out of the room, leaving his guest to his thoughts, and he sat there with rugged brow thinking over the past and his future, and asking himself whether he, a surgeon, had done right in accepting the post.
His musings were long, for the few minutes extended into an hour, but; he did not notice the lapse of time. There was so much to think about. His father? Well, he could have done no more if he had stayed. His sister? That difficulty would settle itself, for, girl as she was, Isabel had plenty of their father’s will and determination; and he felt sure that she would never marry one man while she loved another.
His brother?
He drew his breath hard, and the struggle within him was long, but he mastered his feelings at last, and calmly and dispassionately reviewed the matter.
There was nothing unfair. His brother had not taken any mean advantage of him. He had been struck by the woman he loved at their first encounter, and what wonder? No: there had been nothing unfair. It had been a race between them, and his brother had won the prize.
His duty stood out plainly enough before him, but he was weak, and it was hard to do that duty. Some day—it would be years first in this case—he would look her in the face, and take her hand as his sister, and grasp his brother’s hand with all due warmth. But not yet—not yet. He must have time, and he felt that he would act wisely in going right away.
There was a sad pleasure in reviewing these events of the past, and there was a kind of solace in being alone there in that gloomy room, so shut in that the rattle of wheels in the square outside sounded subdued and calming to his weary spirit. He began thinking then once more of the future, of the great battle he had to fight.
“And I will fight manfully,” he said softly, as he sat gazing at the fire, “against self as well as against disease. And if I fall—well, better men die daily. I shall have done some good first, and I will fight to the last.”
His chin sank down upon his breast, and he sat there picturing in imagination the place to which he was going. How long he had been thinking thus he did not know, and he felt half resentful as Sir Denton’s hand was laid lightly on his shoulder.
“Asleep?”
“Oh, no: only thinking deeply.”
“Of—of—” said the old man nervously.
“Of my work, sir? The great work to come? Yes.”
“That’s right—that’s right, my dear boy; but you have had no wine. I’m so sorry I was called away, but you will forgive me, I know.”
“Don’t name it, Sir Denton,” said Neil quietly. “I have had so much to think about that the time has not seemed long.”
“Indeed? It has to me. But fill your glass, my dear boy—a glass of port.”
Neil shook his head.
“Then I think,” said Sir Denton in a hurried, nervous way, “we will go up to the drawing room. It is getting late—the—er—the butler was waiting at the door as I came down—er—to clear away.”
“And your patient?” said Neil, making an effort to take an interest in his host’s affairs. “Better?”
“Eh? My patient? Yes, yes, I think so. Along interview, though.”
He led the way to the door, and then up the broad staircase of the great sombre old house, but only to halt on the landing.
“Go in,” he said. “I will join you soon.”
Neil entered slowly, and the door was closed behind him, as he went on across the wide, dim room to where a fire glowed. His eyes were cast down, and the place was so feebly lit by the shaded lamps and a pair of wax candles that he had reached the middle before he became aware that a figure in black had risen from a chair by the fire and was standing supporting itself by one hand resting upon the great marble mantelpiece.
Neil stopped short, with his heart beating violently. Then, after taking a couple of steps forward with outstretched hands, he checked himself again.
“You here?” he cried hoarsely; and he crossed to the other side of the fireplace. “Sir Denton did not tell me. I did not know.”
“I have been here more than an hour,” was said in a low voice which trembled slightly.
There was a pause, during which Neil fought hard with the feeling—half indignation that he should have been forced into such a situation—half despair.
“You have left my father, then,” he said at last, in an unnaturally calm voice.
“Yes: my work was ended. There was no need for me to stay.”
Again there was a pause which neither seemed to possess the power to break, and the indignant feeling rose hotter in Neil’s breast. For a moment he felt that he must turn and quit the room, but the anger passed off, and he stood firm, grasping the edge of the mantelpiece, and mentally calling himself coward and utterly wanting in nerve.
“My brother’s betrothed,” he muttered; “my brother’s betrothed!” and he tried to picture her before him as something holy—as the woman who was soon to occupy the position of sister, with all that had passed between them forgotten—dead forever.
And that terrible silence continued till there was the sound of a carriage approaching, reaching the house, and causing a faint rattling of one of the windows, after which it passed on with a strange, hollow, metallic sound, which died away gradually, when the silence seemed to have grown ten times more painful, and the failing fire fell together with a musical tinkle. Then a few glowing cinders dropped through the grating, and as Neil watched them where they lay on the grey hearth, he saw them gradually turn black, and compared them to the passion in his breast.
“Like the glowing ashes of my poor love,” he thought, as the painful silence continued, for still neither felt that it was possible to speak.
“If Sir Denton would only come and end this madness!” thought Elisia. “If this agony would only end, I could go back to my poor sufferers—and oblivion.”
The clock on the mantel suddenly gave one stroke to indicate the half hour, and the clear, sharp ring of its silvery toned bell vibrated through the room, its tones seeming as if they would never cease. Then all was silence once again, till, making an effort, the trembling woman spoke in a low, pained voice, which she strove hard to render firm: “Sir Denton tells me, Mr Elthorne—”
She stopped, for a deep breath escaped from Neil’s breast, sounding like a faint groan of relief.
“I beg your pardon,” he said coldly.
“Sir Denton tells me,” she said again, but more firmly, for his tone irritated her over-strung nerves, “that you have accepted an appointment to go out to one of the most unhealthy places on the West Coast.”
The spell was broken, and he could speak out now firmly and well.
“Yes,” he said, with a feeling of eager joy that they were off dangerous ground. “I suppose the place is unhealthy, for the suffering there is terrible. It has been full of horrors, but I hope to change all that.”
“And the risk—to your life?”
He laughed—harshly, it sounded to her—and she shrank away at his next words, but still clutched the marble mantelpiece.
“This from you?” he said; and she thought it was meant as a reproach, but his next words gave her confidence. “Why, you would go into any plague-stricken place without shrinking, or realising the danger.”
“Yes,” she said softly, “if it were necessary. I hope so.”
“Well, then, why should I hesitate? I hope I shall not suffer. It would be a pity,” he continued, quite calmly now, and his words seemed unimpassioned and dreamy in their simplicity. “If I died, I suppose it would be a loss to the poor people out there, whom I hope to save. They might have a difficulty in getting another man.”
“Yes,” she said, with a shudder. “Sir Denton tells me that he has had great trouble in filling the appointment.”
“I suppose so. Yes: he told me.”
There was another pause.
“Ought you to go?” she said at last, and her voice was not so firm.
“Certainly,” he replied rather bitterly. “I have nothing to lose except my life.”
“You have those at home who love you—sister, father.”
“Poor little Isabel! Yes, but she has one who loves her. My father is sure to yield to circumstances there. It is of him I think most. I shall ask you to be kind to him, as you always have been. He will grow more exacting, I fear, as the years roll on; but you will see him occasionally. He likes you; his liking will grow into love, and he will take your advice. Will you do this for me?”
She made no reply, and as silence was gathering round them again, he hastened to break it and fight back the thoughts that would arise.
“I shall be grateful for anything you in your experience can do for him to make life pass more easily; and you will help and counsel my little sister, too. She must not marry a fox hunting squire.”
Still no answer, and he went on hurriedly.
“I shall not go down again. I start so very soon. It would only be painful to them; and I shall be very busy making preparations till the ship sails.”
She stood there, clinging to the cold stone, and he went on in the same hurried way.
“It is a grand work, and Heaven knows I wish I were more capable. There will be so much to do. I shall have to start a hospital, even in the humblest way at first, and let it grow by degrees. There will be a great deal of prejudice, too, to overcome, but it will be satisfactory to master all these difficulties one by one. And I will!” he cried with energy. “Yes: Sir Denton is right,” he added enthusiastically; “it will be a grand work, and I long to get there and begin.”
“And you will go without fear,” she said, as if she were speaking a solemn truth.
“I hope so,” he said humbly; “but man is very weak. There, I am going, weak or strong, and I think you know me enough to believe that I shall do my best.”
“Yes, I know that,” she said gravely, and her voice was very low and sweet.
“Thank you. It encourages me,” he said cheerfully. “You will give me your prayers for my success, I know.”
“Indeed, yes,” she said, as she looked up at him, and he saw her eyes were wet with tears.
“Don’t—don’t do that,” he said huskily. “It is nothing to grieve for. I only say, forgive me for all the mistaken past, and—”
His emotion choked him for the moment, but he struggled bravely to go on:
“And I pray God to bless you in your future, and make you very happy, dear. It is your brother speaking to his sister, and my words now are an honest and self-denying as ever man spoke.”
“I know it,” she said, with quivering lips, and her sweet voice thrilled him and made him falter; but he fought on. “I have known for long that you could speak nothing but the honest truth.”
“Thank you,” he said quickly; “thank you. You and I have worked together long now, and have had some triumphs of which we might boast. Where is Sir Denton? He ought to come, and we could chat over all of my projects. I shall write to you, of course, and tell you all I am doing, and you can give me a word or two of advice, perhaps. Why, nurse—I beg your pardon—Lady Cicely—your name sounds strange to me, I have so lately heard it from Sir Denton—how grateful we all ought to be for your devotion to our good cause. Forgive me for speaking so.”
She seemed plunged in thought, and not to hear his words, and he started, as she spoke now in alow, soft, dreamy way, as if uttering the thoughts that had occupied her for the past few minutes.
“You are going out possibly to your death, Neil Elthorne,” she said.
“That is the worst that can happen.”
“No,” she said softly, “not the worst. You are going yonder to fight with disease, forsaking all who love you, offering up your own life as a sacrifice, that yonder poor stricken creatures may live.”
“Heaven only knows,” he said solemnly.
“You are going alone, to face the horrors of a pestilence without the help such as you find here.”
“Yes, but I shall soon get assistance, and till then I must do my best.”
She looked across at him where he stood, and again that dim room was silent, so that the slightest sound would have been a relief.
“Are you fixed upon going?” she said at last; and then she started, for his voice rang out now strongly. “Yes,” he cried, “I must.”
“Alone, with no hand to help you to fight this good fight? No: you must not go alone. Take me with you. I will go.”
He started from the chimney-piece, for a wildly delirious thought made his brain reel; but she stood there before him, pale and calm, as if the words she had uttered were of the simplest kind.
He made almost a superhuman effort over self as he felt that the mad thought within him must be crushed.
“No,” he said coldly; “your love for the profession you embraced leads you astray. I shall find nurses there. What, you?” he cried almost fiercely. “Woman, your place is here.”
She took a step toward him, and held out her hands, and her voice was very low.
“I thought all that was dead for me,” she almost whispered, “that the past had burned my heart to ashes, and I have fought long and hard to do my duty in the path that I had marked out for my own through life. I did not know. Neil, how could you misjudge me so!”
He seemed to stagger at her words; his lips moved, but no sound came, and when at last he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse and strange.
“But Alison—my brother?” he cried.
“Alison—your brother!” she said softly, and with a trace of scorn in her tones. “How could you be so blind!”
Neil started violently, and gazed at the pained face before him.
“Am I mad?” he muttered; and then aloud: “Be so blind—I blind? What do you mean? In Heaven’s name, speak!”
She looked at him fixedly, with her eyes contracting, but she spoke no word.
“Do you hear me?” he cried fiercely. “You do not answer, Elisia—my brother? No, no, I am not blind. I knew—I saw—he loved you from the first hour he saw you. You cannot deny it. Is that false? Am I blind?”
“In that, no,” she said coldly. “Well, what is that to me? Could I help the insane folly of the man who persecuted me, as you say, from the hour of my arrival at your house?”
“But,” he cried in a low, hoarse whisper, “I have seen and believed—believed, but not without seeing. Elisia, for pity’s sake, tell me—have I been so blind?”
“In reading me, yes. Neil, how could you think that I could ever love your brother? You ought to have known it was impossible.”
“Hush! What are you saying?” he cried, as he eagerly caught her hands.
“The simple truth,” she said gently. “I have crushed it down, but I have loved you long and well.”
“No, no,” he cried, “for Heaven’s sake! You will drive me mad.”
“No,” she whispered; “it cannot be unwomanly at a time like this.”
“Too late—too late!” and he drew back, covered his face with his hands, and let his head fall upon the cold marble at his side.
“No,” she whispered, as she clasped her hands, and laid them on his shoulder, “it is not too late. Mine was but a girlish love for one unworthy of a thought, and in my youthful weakness I thought that all the world was base. I did not know. Take me, Neil, husband, as your faithful wife. It is not too late. We will go there hand in hand, side by side, to fight this pestilence.”
“What? Take you there—you?” he cried, as he raised his head, and caught her hands—“take you to face that awful scourge?”
“Yes,” she cried, raising her head proudly, “side by side with you in the awful strife. God with us, Neil—our faith in his protecting shield, as I place mine in you, my brave, true hero—my love—my life.”
“Till death do us part,” cried Neil, as he clasped her to his breast.
“Amen!” said a solemn voice, and Sir Denton came forward out of the darkness, and stopped by their side. “I thought I was going to the grave a childless man,” he continued in a broken voice—“my son—my daughter. You have given me afresh lease of life—to live till I see you once again. I say it, children, I, the old prophet: I shall see you before I die.”